


bells and a sailor on the open sea

by catsmock



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: F/M, lots of things about the sea, subtle food porn, the doTHRAKI ON AN OPEN FIELD NED
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-09-29
Updated: 2017-09-29
Packaged: 2019-01-06 18:16:44
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,430
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12216273
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/catsmock/pseuds/catsmock
Summary: Jon had seen the Dragon Queen, but did not inquire further to the medley of titles following —  it’s his first glimpse at the Khaleesi of the Great Grass Sea, he realizes. A glimpse is truly all he can get: a flash of a warm smile, the playful squint of lilac eyes, a flushed cheek or twirling wrist, and then she’s lost again, swallowed whole. (set before the council meeting in 7x05)





	bells and a sailor on the open sea

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Fe_rosa22](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Fe_rosa22/gifts).



The climb is long and winding, wet stones slippery underfoot — Tyrion stops frequently, twisted legs easily fatigued from the treck. Jon thinks perhaps they’ll never make it to the village, but he can hear the healthy roar of a fire and mess of voices shadowed by the crashing of waves against the shore, so he climbs on.

Moonlight basks the glade, bursts of orange light from distant fires interrupting the gleam reflecting off the grass. Thousands of tents clutter the islet; some small, thatched with dry grass, barely big enough to sleep two men abreast, others holding a likeness to pavilions, structured with wooden poles and hide. Horses graze lazily, tucked between each dwelling, milling around the lush green of the cay decidedly unperturbed from the noise of celebration only feet away. He drags his hand along the snout of one of the beasts, a brilliant red colt — light eyes soft and curious as it regards him, lashes fluttering.

They wind their way through the hamlet, stepping into a clearing illuminated brilliantly by a massive pyre, the heat battling the cool air from the sea. Jon follows closely behind Davos, his eyes passing over the crowd around them: women, men, and warriors, all dancing and singing carelessly about them, bodies pressed together in a cluster. The Dothraki stare curiously at him as he walks past — he feels almost silly, skin sweating feverishly under his Northern furs as he parades past men and women clad only in horsehair leggings, chests bare and oiled.

He steps distractedly onto the dais, eyes catching over his shoulder at the celebration below him. He’s never seen so many people in one place. “Marvelous, isn’t it?” Tyrion calls out, seating himself at the rounded table’s edge. Jon can only nod in agreeance. They stand at the edge of it all: a sea at their back, cliff dropping steep into the black curl of the water, a sea at their front — copper skin dim in the cloak of night yet flickering at the catch of firelight. Laughter, the soft twinkle of bells, and the rough melody of the foreign tongue battling for his attention. Together they seem almost one, bodies moving untamed to an unfamiliar rhythm beat over an emptied wooden cask. _They seem free_ , he thinks, reminded impossibly of a flicker of red hair, of a blinding bitter cold, of a talon nestled in his cheek. He turns away, burdened by the sudden memory, taking his place at the table beside Davos.

He wrestles his cloak from his shoulders, resting it on the chair behind him as his eyes glaze over the feast sat out for them — plates heavy with blood sausages, horseflesh roasted in peppers, crabclaw pies steaming and buttered. A ham roasted in a crust of garlic and herbs perches at the center of the table, almost hidden by a mountain of ripe blood melons and apricots. He can smell the sweetbreads, but can not see them amidst the salvers of roasted onion, boiled goose egg, and crumbled cheese. Flagons of spiced wine, ale, and fermented mare’s milk rest in disarray upon the spread. Davos guffaws beside him, reaching across the feast to pour himself a mug of mead, “I don’t know what I’ve done to deserve this, but tell Her Grace I would be happy to continue doing it.”

Tyrion laughs softly around a mouth of sausage, picking about the table to fill his plate. If Jon wasn’t hungry before, he surely is now. He grabs a plate, piling it nonsensically with things he has no intention of finishing, upends a mug of a sweet red into his mouth, humming at the notes of plum and cherry that touch his tongue. Jon almost begins eating before he notices the empty seat to his right, “Should we wait for Her Grace?” He cautions, watching the glimmer of mirth in the dwarf’s mismatched eyes.

“I’m quite sure she’s started without us,” Tyrion chortles, gesturing lazily to the crowd below them. Jon twists in his seat, seeking her out in the tangle of bodies. She’s almost indistinguishable, dressed in kind — a painted vest, a pair of leggings — but the pale glint of her hair gives her away, braided and oiled, hanging low against her back. She’s dancing among them. With them. A babe with honeyed skin and raven hair bouncing on her hip, squealing in delight at the attention. Jon had seen the Dragon Queen, but did not inquire further to the medley of titles following —  it’s his first glimpse at the Khaleesi of the Great Grass Sea, he realizes. A glimpse is truly all he can get: a flash of a warm smile, the playful squint of lilac eyes, a flushed cheek or twirling wrist, and then she’s lost again, swallowed whole. “Your Grace!” Tyrion yells to her, mounted atop his chair.  

Her head whips around in search of the voice, the bells in her hair shining brilliantly in the capture of light.

“Good evening, my Lords,” Daenerys breathes, waving their attempts to raise at her approach.

“I didn't think you’d accept my invitation.” She says quietly after she settles beside him, eyebrows raised.

“I’m glad I did.” Jon responds.

A glimmer of something he can’t quite place shines at him from her eyes, “I am too.”

Daenerys slips out of her shoes, tucking her feet under her in her seat and leans forward to grab an apricot from the center of the array. The table falls to idle conversation, Tyrion setting his guests alight with stories of previous conquests and adventures. Jon finds himself unable to participate, pleasantly distracted by the Queen at his side. She hardly speaks in the beginning, chest still heaving in exhaustion from dancing, but when the moon hangs full and heavy overhead she parries with Davos over the quaintness of an island Jon had never heard of, snorts brazenly when Tyrion lets out a drunken jest, flings herself from her seat to embrace Jorah when he arrives sometime later. Not at all the same Queen that sat, spine stiff, before him nearly two months ago.

“If ye don’t mind me asking, Your Grace.” Ser Davos breaks in. “What is it that we celebrate today?”

“Life.” She says, “They’ve won a battle, not the war, but its all the same.”

“Is it?” It slips from Jon’s lips before he has a chance to question it. Her eyes flit to him, brows flickering in irritation if only for a moment.

“One more battle won. One more day to live.” Jorah says matter of factly, eyes trained on the prong in his grip.

“And that’s enough? One more day?”

A small huff escapes her lips, a semblance of a laugh, and she turns to him, eyes dark, “It’s better than none.” She holds his stare, daring him to respond, to challenge her. Jon has half a mind to, to assert the gravity of the true war, the real battles to come.

Tyrion stumbles from his chair, jeweled hand assisting his clumsy hobble around the table, “I am going to find a maiden to dance with, perhaps Varys. He’s got all the qualifications.” Their stare breaks at the intrusion, and when she finally looks away Jon can breathe again. A laugh bubbles from her throat as she turns to watch the man drop himself from the platform into the thrush. The sound had not become foreign to him this night but it startles him all the same.

The table settles into a comfortable silence, Davos and Jorah murmur quietly to each other passingly but no other discussion grows, and as the night grows closer to its end the Queen beside him wilts. Daenerys sets her elbow on the table, resting her chin upon an open palm; her eyes take him in quiet consideration, flitting from this to that. Drogon had taken him similarly, eyes blinking slowly as if to register him bit by bit, and he had complied, inviting the beast with a trembling hand to trust him. Under her gaze, though, he can feel the rush of blood through his veins, the way his chest expands when he breathes in, he wonders idly if he’s slouching, feels the strange urge to straighten, to sober — drop his eyes or say something, but he can’t. It would seem that he is more afraid of the mother than the child.

She stands, smoothing her hands over her trousers. “Walk with me, Jon Snow.”

He nods once, following her down into the crowd. Coppered hands find his face, his arms, his hair — they’re tentative, questioning — he feels that he should be flustered or scared, but it’s a calming security that washes over him. A warmth fills his chest, it’s kindness they offer him. Daenerys walks not far ahead, joining hands with an old woman in passing, tugging playfully at the hair of an edged warrior, unfamiliar words tumble from her mouth. Murmurs of Khaleesi follow them. _Khaleesi._

Dragonstone was large and cavernous, and of his months on the island, he had seen little of her.  She visited the mines sparingly; to check on progress, to gaze upon the carvings in the bosom of the quarry, _maybe to see him_ he’d thought. He’d declined her requests to attend her counsel, to sup late into the night — he was there for only one reason and wouldn’t allow himself to be distracted. The few times he had gathered notion of Her Grace, she was with her Hand, her spider, her handmaiden. Spite all this, he’d never seen her with her people, and  _these_ were her people. Would she find her people in Westeros? Would she join hands with the poor, invite the nameless and broken into her arms as she did now? Jon knew well enough how the crown changed people, he had heard as much from his father about the late King Robert, would Daenerys be so kind when she had the weight of a realm on her shoulders?

The walk to the beach is silent, only the soft cry of gulls and the angry crashing of the ocean permeating the wordlessness between them. He has the strange urge to thank her for this experience, for the beauty of this island, the serenity of these shores, but it occurs to him that he would have to thank more than she for it, he chuckles softly at that. It affords him a surprised look, and she opens her mouth to speak but seems to think better of it. An echo of a smile lingers on her countenance, but she makes no further motion to speak, simply faces forward again, eyes turning to the dark waters.

“I had not seen the sea before I intended to come here.” He admits.  

“Hmm,” her voice is soft, “It’s overwhelming isn’t it?”

“Aye, and beautiful.”

“For so long I loathed the sea; it kept me chained to Essos, kept me from my home. That’s what my brother told me, it’s what I told myself after he died.” Her teeth pierce her bottom lip, eyes brushing impassively over the body of stars hanging brightly in the sky.“It was only when I arrived here that I realized how wrong I was; that I recognized her vastness. Her beauty. Her power.”

“Her?” Jon means it as a joke but silence settles over them, stretching impossibly and heavy, and he’s worried he offended her. Her eyes close for a moment, chin rising minutely into the air. Warm winds catch and carry loose strands of her hair. Whatever he means to say dies on his tongue, _she’s ethereal_. Suddenly her eyes open and she turns to him, head cocked slightly.

“Yes,” a soft smirk curls her lips, “The sea harbors life, Jon Snow. Defies all that aim to tame her, twisting and churning against the men that mar her surface. She commands; a threat in shifting comfort, and then she nurtures — licking at tortured shores, yielding salts and fish. The sea is endless emotion; she loves and hates, she weeps and thunders. She is an inscrutable force.”

Her hand raises to his face, brushing against the unshorn hair of his jaw with careful intention. The touch is feather light but it still burns impossibly hot — Jon wonders if she can feel the violent thumping of his heart under her fingers, threatening to tear from his chest. This close he can see the deep purple of her eyes, a litany of shades in the moonlight, the dimple between her brows, the gentle push and pull of breath from her lips. The air grows uncomfortably thick between them and he can’t fight the rush of want that washes over him; he wants to crash into her all at once, burrow deep under her skin, grow impossibly close, but he won’t. He can’t. _There’s no time for that._

“What could she be if not a woman?”

The words startle him, her previous commentary almost forgotten. Jon tears his gaze from her mouth, allowing his eyes to scope the slope of her cheeks, the valley in her chin — he finds himself memorizing her — every patch of skin, every mark. Her hand drops from his cheek suddenly and a small shudder rips through his body, aware of the loss of heat. She does not leave like he expects, not immediately, her eyes trained upon the twin direwolves at his chest.

“Do direwolves exist in the North?” She questions, fingers dragging against the carving on his clavicle.

“Aye,” his voice comes out rasped, he would find himself embarrassed any other moment but he can’t seem to focus on so many things at once, “I have one.”

“You’ve quite a hand for  _beasts_ then,” she smiles at his upturned brow, “Drogon seems quite beguiled by you.”

It’s a statement, one Jon is not sure he’s meant to respond to. Tyrion had side eyed him curiously when he mentioned his encounter with Drogon. Had it meant much, for the dragon to have accepted him so?

“Good night, my Lord Snow.” Her voice is sharp, hiding again, and she doesn’t meet his eyes.

She leaves him there, standing at the crest of the sea; he stays until the tide pulls closer to his feet until waves dress the toes of his boots. The sun breaches the hold of darkness on the world, painting the sky in shades of orange and cloaking Jon in a growing warmth. The sea, once calm, grows angry as the winds dance choppily in the wake of the early morning. Inscrutable she’d called it, yes, just that. And she along with it.

**Author's Note:**

> I’m not going to lie I was having a hard time finding my footing around the cultural appropriation and westernized bias aspect of this cause like… it's touchy and the Dothraki already have kind of a bs narrative in the novels and show, but I tried my best. Sorry this took so long I got kind of lost in school work.


End file.
